When In Paris
by Nightengale
Summary: Paris, center of the cultural world...where better to make a fortune than Paris?


Paris, center of the cultural world; well, if you were talking to a Parisian at least. Their tea was no comparison to England to be sure. Still, where better to make a fortune than Paris?

Irene smiled as the man across the café looked over at her for the second time. Good tailor, emerald green fabric at least two cuts above the common man with a touch of gold brocade, though his shoes were a season out of date.

'No problem with starting small,' she thought.

The man looked over for a third time, shifting in his chair. This time Irene did not look away. The man smiled in surprise and, seeming to gather his courage, stood up to make his way to her small table.

Ah, Paris, where better to make a fortune? Also the man's pocket watch would look lovely with her purple dress.

* * *

"I must say Mr. Gerard, you are very forward."

He smiled, the light of the chandeliers shinning more off his diamonds than his teeth. "And you are most engaging to bring it out in me."

Irene laughed and dipped her head, right angle to show a bit of bare neck, her eyes sweeping over the pockets of his waistcoat. She raised her head with a glance back at the ballroom, most drunk or too tired to see anything but the gilt lined door.

"Perhaps you would be so good as to walk be home?" Irene asked, putting her hand to her head as though she was feeling faint. "I may have had a bit too much champagne."

"Why of course Ms. Barker," he replied with a smile.

He then held out his arm which Irene took, her fingers brushing against the key in his pocket. She smiled all the wider.

* * *

Two weeks of planning, tight dresses, too many walks of dithering romance through the city and along the Seine, dozen of glasses of wine and a brand new hat. One can only take so much. Time to cash in.

Marcel had his arms around her, hands on her lower back, and he leaned in toward her lips. At the last moment she turned away so the feathers on her hat brushed against his nose with a flutter of powder.

"Why, Marcel," she said with a scandalized tone, pulling slightly away, "really we mustn't, not here in your rooms."

"Elizabeth, please," he begged, holding her hand. "I do not mean to treat you…" then he stumbled back from her once, hand to head.

He stared at her with sudden clarity as she began pulling her ring of skeleton keys out of her sleeve. Then he fell to the floor. Irene pursed her lips and stepped nimbly over him.

"One really can only walk along the Seine so many times before it becomes a bore my dear," she remarked.

Walking over to far wall, Irene slid aside a hanging painting of a hunting scene. From the hidden space in the wall she pulled a small red box. Three keys later, with a slight crunch, the box popped open and Irene pulled out a necklace of small rubies, one flat pearl in the middle of the string.

Irene turned to look at the unconscious man on the floor. "Jewels get you much further. Keep that in mind for the future."

She smiled, fastening the necklace around her neck then turned and headed out the door. Game point to the lady.

* * *

"Oh, my dear, Rose," Marguerite crooned, "I do not know how I ever did without you."

Irene clasped the string of pearls at the younger woman's neck.

"I do my best."

"Oh no," she turned away from her vanity in her chair, "you are positively indispensible to me now. I had never before thought of having my own 'personal fashion assistant' but now that you are here I know I simply could never do without you again."

Irene put a hand over her heart in a gesture of thanks. "You do me far too much favor, Marguerite. After all, what shall you do when I have to leave you?"

"When you have to leave?" Her eyes widened in abject horror. "Oh, please do not say that, you cannot leave. You are very nearly my closest friend as well you know. I should never know what shoes to wear with what gown nor what to say to any young gentleman who should call."

'Dear lord,' Irene thought.

"It is all a matter of learning, my sweet," she said, leaning down so their faces were very near, "and I shall not leave you without a lesson or two."

Marguerite bit her lip. "Perhaps…"

"It is the truth," Irene said turning away to face her bag sitting on the sideboard. "Now, let us add some perfume and you shall be ready to go."

Irene turned and sprayed a quick poof in Marguerite's face. Marguerite blinked and shook her head, coughing twice then leaning back in her chair. It took less than minute as Irene watched her pupils dilate and face go slack. She blinked slowly, staring at Irene.

"What a perfume…" she said quietly.

"The perfect kind," Irene said with the genuine smile. "Now, my dear Marguerite would you be so kind as to get me your emerald necklace?"

"The big one?" Marguerite said pointing lazily over her shoulder.

Irene nodded. "The expensive one."

"I'm not supposed to…"

"I think you can just this once," Irene said soothingly.

"Oh well, if it's for you."

Marguerite stood and somewhat pranced slowly over to her wardrobe, blond hair swaying behind her. Irene's brow furrowed in confusion until, after Marguerite opened the right door, she saw the hidden panel which the girl slid away to reveal the necklace upon a velvet cushion. No wonder Irene had been unable to find it. Marguerite pranced back over and handed the necklace to Irene then fell heavily back into her chair.

"There, there," she crooned again.

Irene smiled and slipped the necklace into the top of her dress.

"Thank you, my sweet," she said touching Marguerite's cheek. "Now you rest and remember what I said about lessons."

She nodded lazily with a tired smile on her face. "Yes, yes."

"Also, never wear those pearl toned shoes of yours again. They simply make you look a child and one does need to grow up."

* * *

The door to Lord Lacroix's private study had a rather particular lock composing of three parts. It was a kind Irene had never seen before. Part one was a conventional lock which turned a block into place in the door frame. Part two consisted of a brass bar along the width of the door in the interior, secured with a second turn of the key which snapped it into place, to prevent the opening of the door should the handle be removed. The third part, by far the most ingenious and difficult, slotted three more bolts into place which could only be unlocked by turning the correct three numbers into place on the dial on the outside above the key lock.

Lord Lacroix locked it every night himself and checked it each morning. No one else knew the three number lock. Inside the study were his most treasured and valuable possessions. His marginally healthy dose of paranoia kept them there away from wandering eyes and prying hands.

Irene, however, did love a challenge.

"Oh, one of those animals from India… an elephant!"

Irene shook her head.

"Really, Charlotte? An elephant?" Jean-Baptiste chided.

"Well, she did extend her arm like a trunk."

The man rolled his eyes. "It was nothing of the sort."

"It is an animal?" Sinclair asked.

Irene nodded and took a large step across the carpet, arms folder her arm pits and neck reaching out.

"Not an elephant…"

"A stork," Lord Lacroix said.

Irene stood up straight and clapped her hands together once. "Bravo!"

"Oh!" the other three intoned.

"I never did like charades…" Charlotte fussed.

"Oh sister," Sinclair said with fondness.

"Please," Lord Lacroix said, "do not be sore losers now."

"They always are," Jean-Baptiste replied, his tone full of boredom.

Irene glanced at the clock, nearly midnight. Only four servants left awake and the moon not risen high enough yet to cast light into the house's study. Time for mischief.

"Shall we have some tea to keep our spirits up?" Irene asked with a tone that brooked no argument.

"Ah, how English you are my dear. I am quite glad I invited you," Lord Lacroix said with a quirk of his lips.

"Could you have refused me?" Irene replied with a toss of her brown hair.

"Tea?" Charlotte piped up. "So late?"

"I am not done with you yet," Irene replied with a mysterious look.

A servant came forward with a tray. Irene swept over and took it from his hands.

"You be off to bed now. I can handle these ruffians."

He bowed once. "Very good, madam."

Irene put the tray down by the wall and discreetly took a small vial from a pocket among the ruffles of her skirt. Ten minutes later all were asleep where they sat as Irene threw the remaining tea in the fire.

"Pleasant dreams," Irene said quietly placing the pot on the table.

Upstairs, dodging one servant, Irene came to the study. Time to be ingenious. Irene lifted her skirts and untied a small brass box from her hip. She fastened the box over the top of the three rolling number above the key lock, clicking the hooks into place on either side. The box was actually a mechanism which amplified sound much like an ear trumpet and attached thusly it would amplify the sounds of the turning numbers. Thus, when Irene slowly turned the numbers underneath she could hear the definitive click when the correct numbers set into place.

Irene grinned as 735 set and unlocked, "Only ten minutes. How it pays to be patient."

Next off with the doorknob, a task which any lock smith could surmount, yet still there was the bar across the back which could just be seen through the hole of the doorknob.

"Let's try out our toys then," Irene said un-strapping a long metal rod from her other leg.

Skirts were so delightfully helpful at concealing things. It was a wonder more women were not engaged in the art of smuggling and theft.

The rod was in fact not just a rod but a useful tool. Three joints allowed it to fold out into a sort of square C while a somewhat wider flat sheet of metal protruded from the back like a V. It almost looked like a portable step. The C portion of the rod fit, after some adjustment, with one end under the door while the other slid through the hole from the removed door knob and clamped onto the brass bar within.

"Simplicity in force," Irene said then she stepped down on the flat V, hard.

The pedal pushed the rod forward and as the heavy mahogany door would not give way to the applied force some thing else had to react. The bar groaned and gave way, clattering to the floor inside. Irene reached out a gloved hand and pushed the door which swung open.

"Why thank you, Lord Lacroix," Irene said as she stepped into the room, "for giving me a tour."

Irene walked over the maroon rugs covering the floor straight over to a case against the far wall with glass doors. With the key from the desk beside it, Irene unlocked the doors and pulled out one leather bound book. It was a signed original copy of Leaves of Grass, the first one printed. Irene did like Walt Whitman.

Perhaps it wasn't all about making one's fortune.

"Must be off!" Irene said to the empty study as she turned with a spin of her dress.

* * *

Walking along the Champs-Élysées, Irene stopped to allow a pair of gentlemen to catch up to her. She looked over at them as they neared and smiled, gave a flash of eyelashes. They both unconsciously stepped a bit closer as they passed her and tipped their hats. Irene tipped her head demurely and walked the other direction, a new silver calling card case in her hand. Ah, well, not everyone's pockets were as plentiful.

Just then someone touched her shoulder. She turned, tucking the case up her sleeve to see a man holding her purse in his hand. Her eyes went wide despite herself and she glanced down at her empty wrist.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Adler," he said. "Your skills are indeed quite commendable on all levels."

"But not without flaw?" she replied taking her purse back.

"Perhaps," he said.

"And you sir? Might I learn who it is that has made a game of my purse?"

He nodded a fraction. "Moriarty, Professor James Moriarty and I wish to engage your services."

Irene could not stop an eager grin spreading on her face. "I'm listening."


End file.
